Hello, there. I haven't fallen off the bloggy face of the planet, I promise. But the last week has been a whirlwind and I have simply been to busy living that thing called life to sit and type. Bad blogger, bad, bad, bad... I know. This is probably why I'll never crack 100 subscribers in my Google Connect box, why I won't see more than 32 hits a day, why no one will remembah my name, fame!
Whoops! Giddy random posting ahead. That means Kahlua and cream at bedtime, but I'm not sleepy, so I'm post-y instead. So here's some delightful randomness from the last coulpe of weeks:
Violet mispronounces the word "noise" as "nows." This never fails to amuse me, mostly because, though this is consistent, Scott can't remember it from one use to the next. So she'll ask him, "What's that nows?" and he looks all Mr. Magoo befuddled. Hee!
We got Milo's school supply list and I'll be taking him shopping tomorrow for pencils, glue sticks, and other assorted Kindergarten stuffs. Squee!
Violet can pedal a tricycle. Which is more than I can say for poor Milo and his bike. He hasn't gotten the idea on the two-wheeler (plus training wheels) of how to use gravity to help you. As a result, he thinks he needs to practically park his bum on his back tire to get his bike started. Whee!
Completely to my surprise, some of our wimpy tomato plants are starting to bear fruit. I'm going to go out and thread them through some tomato cages tomorrow to see if we can ripen some. Who loves tomatoes? Me!
Violet is asking to use the potty at some very odd times. At least it means she's not getting out of the pool to squat and fill her already sodden swimmy diaper (aka tinkle down her leg). Pee!
My lovely supervisor at work has moved on to another organization, moving onward and upward in the world. Which means that one of two things will happen: I'll kick some heinie when I interview for her job or I'll have to train another supervisor. EEEeee!!
And now I'm sleepy. What does that mean? zzzzzzzzeee....
Friday, July 30, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Meditation
I touched the earth this weekend, opened it wide to feed my family and nourish my soul, walking through the circle of life to take my place in the heartland, my fingertips grazing the ghosts of prairie women past.
With my own hands I plucked feathers from my flock, gripping the feet of a still-warm bird in the deafening silence of the yard, cicadas and the flapping of a thousand wings orchestrating my first butchering experience. As I shook damp down from my hands, a butterfly alighted on the plucking table, her languishing wings dipping gently in the breeze. She stayed there a moment, then fluttered off, leaving a breath of thanks with the chicken I held.
This wasn't an easy experience for me, I flinch at the sight of roadkill, avert my eyes when my husband and his brothers show proud pictures of their hunt. I do not like to hurt animals, but have felt a driving need to be able to bring things to my table that we have cared for ourselves, that we have nurtured and selected and weeded and plucked. I do not want my children to grow up in this land of agriculture thinking that their meal comes in wrapped styrofoam, resplendent with antibiotics and growth hormones and mega-syllabled chemicals.
I thank the earth for her bounty. I thank her as I tease the stubborn grass from the onion shoot, clearing a space around the food so that it can breathe. I thank her as I separate the squash from the vine and again later as I slice it with my baby onion to feed myself and my children. I thank her as my son's sturdy hands find hidden green beans, plucking them in a joyful scavenger hunt. I thank her as the wind rustles through my corn like a friend hiding. I thank her for my land, my water, my sunshine, and my life.
I thank her for being a place to teach my children about their place in the vast universe, their place on our postage stamp farm, in our food chain and as caretakers of the earth to come.
With my own hands I plucked feathers from my flock, gripping the feet of a still-warm bird in the deafening silence of the yard, cicadas and the flapping of a thousand wings orchestrating my first butchering experience. As I shook damp down from my hands, a butterfly alighted on the plucking table, her languishing wings dipping gently in the breeze. She stayed there a moment, then fluttered off, leaving a breath of thanks with the chicken I held.
This wasn't an easy experience for me, I flinch at the sight of roadkill, avert my eyes when my husband and his brothers show proud pictures of their hunt. I do not like to hurt animals, but have felt a driving need to be able to bring things to my table that we have cared for ourselves, that we have nurtured and selected and weeded and plucked. I do not want my children to grow up in this land of agriculture thinking that their meal comes in wrapped styrofoam, resplendent with antibiotics and growth hormones and mega-syllabled chemicals.
I thank the earth for her bounty. I thank her as I tease the stubborn grass from the onion shoot, clearing a space around the food so that it can breathe. I thank her as I separate the squash from the vine and again later as I slice it with my baby onion to feed myself and my children. I thank her as my son's sturdy hands find hidden green beans, plucking them in a joyful scavenger hunt. I thank her as the wind rustles through my corn like a friend hiding. I thank her for my land, my water, my sunshine, and my life.
I thank her for being a place to teach my children about their place in the vast universe, their place on our postage stamp farm, in our food chain and as caretakers of the earth to come.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Smooth Operator
I think that my son will end up making me a grandmother when he's all of fifteen.
Yes, that is an odd prediction to make for a five-year-old, but my son is smo-o-o-o-oth.
He is the darling of many little girls from his preschool class, and, even more telling, with their mothers, too. Yesterday he attended a birthday party for a classmate. He was the only boy invited, but he did just fine with the five wiggling-giggling girls at the Build-a-Bear Workshop. He charmed the pants off of the bear builder with his sweetness and humor, sealing the deal when he named his stuffed kitty "Dear Prudence."
My husband says that being the boy that all of the girls' moms suggest as a date is the kiss of death. I shake my head and smile knowingly, reminding him that somehow I fell for his transparent maneuverings in college and that he didn't have half of the charm at nineteen that our son has at five.
How do I know? Here's a prime example:
We're outside as the sun is setting, checking our tiny new trees and harvesting a handful of green beans. The kids and I are standing on the concrete pad, looking at the western horizon as the sun sets.
Milo says, "Look, mom!" as he points to the crescent moon rising into the dusk.
"I see the moon, sweetie... very pretty tonight!"
He takes me had and gently pulls me to his eye level. "Do you know that the moon means?"
Puzzled, and not sure if he was going to suggest something to do with werewolves I answer, "No, what does it mean?"
"It means love, mom," he says as he cups my chin in his hand and looks me right in the eye. "And it means I love you!"
*Swoon*
Yeah, tell me some fifteen year old girl is going to be able to resist that one...
Yes, that is an odd prediction to make for a five-year-old, but my son is smo-o-o-o-oth.
He is the darling of many little girls from his preschool class, and, even more telling, with their mothers, too. Yesterday he attended a birthday party for a classmate. He was the only boy invited, but he did just fine with the five wiggling-giggling girls at the Build-a-Bear Workshop. He charmed the pants off of the bear builder with his sweetness and humor, sealing the deal when he named his stuffed kitty "Dear Prudence."
My husband says that being the boy that all of the girls' moms suggest as a date is the kiss of death. I shake my head and smile knowingly, reminding him that somehow I fell for his transparent maneuverings in college and that he didn't have half of the charm at nineteen that our son has at five.
How do I know? Here's a prime example:
We're outside as the sun is setting, checking our tiny new trees and harvesting a handful of green beans. The kids and I are standing on the concrete pad, looking at the western horizon as the sun sets.
Milo says, "Look, mom!" as he points to the crescent moon rising into the dusk.
"I see the moon, sweetie... very pretty tonight!"
He takes me had and gently pulls me to his eye level. "Do you know that the moon means?"
Puzzled, and not sure if he was going to suggest something to do with werewolves I answer, "No, what does it mean?"
"It means love, mom," he says as he cups my chin in his hand and looks me right in the eye. "And it means I love you!"
*Swoon*
Yeah, tell me some fifteen year old girl is going to be able to resist that one...
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A Revolutionary Cries: Down with Summer!!
Some things are just plain unfair. Like rain-on-my-parade unfair. Like the-green-with-envy-Grinch unfair. Like...
Being the first one awake each and every morning. We all know that I am the one to attend to the dogs first thing in the morning because I am the only adult in the house who can a) hear them bark and b) wake up with enough coordination to make it down the stairs safely at 5:45 a.m. This is nothing new for me -- for the last 14 years I have headed into work by 8 AM. I don't really have an issue with getting up early.
Except when it is following a late evening. And, since it is summer time and my children and husband have the luxury of sleeping until whenever they want the next morning, our evening activities and bedtimes have been pushing later and later into the night. When we go to the pool in the evening, we don't even get home until 8:15, by the time the kids have a snack and get to bed, we're pushing 9:15 -- especially since my newly-confident (read: extra sassy) son protests, "We can't go to bed yet -- the moon isn't even up!"
After getting the wee ones to bed, Scott and I generally snuggle up next to each other with a popcorny snack and watch something we've Netflixed or can stream through the Wii. Yes, in addition to some really goofy stuff, you can stream some good stuff. Or, in his case, every bad horror movie known to zombiehood.
Then you add in the whole still-trying-to-conceive business and I'm not getting to sleep until midnight. On a work night, oh the horror! You see, I have lulled myself into believing that I can function well on almost six hours of sleep a night. I'm only working 4-hour days right now, right?
In theory, that sounds like it should work. But those four hours are only my office time, I'm not fooling anyone by saying those are the only hours I work. I work all dang day! There's the never-ending laundry pile, daily vacuuming of dog fur, cooking, cleaning, kid-raising... I can't do this on a mere six hours of sleep!
I am a cranky mama lately, impatient and short-tempered. I yawn all day and nod off when sitting still for too long. I yearn for a nap... I think I *might* be able to blame it on the Clomid, but that's a stretch. The real culprit is summer. Viva la school year!!!
Being the first one awake each and every morning. We all know that I am the one to attend to the dogs first thing in the morning because I am the only adult in the house who can a) hear them bark and b) wake up with enough coordination to make it down the stairs safely at 5:45 a.m. This is nothing new for me -- for the last 14 years I have headed into work by 8 AM. I don't really have an issue with getting up early.
Except when it is following a late evening. And, since it is summer time and my children and husband have the luxury of sleeping until whenever they want the next morning, our evening activities and bedtimes have been pushing later and later into the night. When we go to the pool in the evening, we don't even get home until 8:15, by the time the kids have a snack and get to bed, we're pushing 9:15 -- especially since my newly-confident (read: extra sassy) son protests, "We can't go to bed yet -- the moon isn't even up!"
After getting the wee ones to bed, Scott and I generally snuggle up next to each other with a popcorny snack and watch something we've Netflixed or can stream through the Wii. Yes, in addition to some really goofy stuff, you can stream some good stuff. Or, in his case, every bad horror movie known to zombiehood.
Then you add in the whole still-trying-to-conceive business and I'm not getting to sleep until midnight. On a work night, oh the horror! You see, I have lulled myself into believing that I can function well on almost six hours of sleep a night. I'm only working 4-hour days right now, right?
In theory, that sounds like it should work. But those four hours are only my office time, I'm not fooling anyone by saying those are the only hours I work. I work all dang day! There's the never-ending laundry pile, daily vacuuming of dog fur, cooking, cleaning, kid-raising... I can't do this on a mere six hours of sleep!
I am a cranky mama lately, impatient and short-tempered. I yawn all day and nod off when sitting still for too long. I yearn for a nap... I think I *might* be able to blame it on the Clomid, but that's a stretch. The real culprit is summer. Viva la school year!!!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Piddling at the Pool
We are a family of vampires.
Well, not quite, but I'm a red-head, my kids are blonde, and my hubby hisses at the sun. Collectively, we are half a shade darker than an albino. I should own stock in a sunscreen company. In case you haven't ever seen me in real life, I'm pale. My kids got screwed in the "healthy glow" department.
So when you see us at the pool, you are very likely to find us as the only family who swims in suits comparable to what our great-great-grandparents wore in 1902. My kids wear shortie wetsuits, Scott swims in a rash guard t-shirt, and I wear *gasp* men's trunks with my tankini top. OK, that's mostly because I have shaving issues, but we are easily the most covered up family splashing around.
Maybe that makes me stand out like a sore thumb or maybe that makes me seem crazy exotic, but whatever the case, it attracts lonely kids like moths to a flame. The last three times I have been at the pool, clearly occupied with own little water nymphs, I have been approached (more like mobbed) by needy little boys. Three different boys.
One was very, very interested in my kids' water toys. Since we were three minutes from the pool closing, I let him use a water shooter. Until I caught a woman, who was sitting on a deck chair, glaring at me like I was molesting her kid. Thankfully, the last splash whistle blew and we were done for the evening.
The next was a kid right about Milo's age. So five-ish. He sidled up to me with some inane five-year-old chatter, then proceeded to splash my face with a full-on tidal wave. I was wearing my contact lenses, so I turned my back to him because I didn't want him to wash my lenses right out of my eye. The kid was clearly not a whiz with subtlety because he kept splashing my back. Scott noticed and warned him, "You don't want to splash he, buddy, she'll splash you back."
But he continued to splash me until his mother FINALLY got up off her deck chair and told him, "Splashing is not nice. Please leave her alone so I can get back to my book."
Hmm... interesting pattern of kids not being supervised well by mothers who are working on their tans instead of keeping track of their progeny, huh? Maybe the best pool moms are the palest?
The third kid was easily the most strange. I do not know if he had a parent or guardian at the pool or not, but I was sitting on the edge while Violet was bouncing around me with our dive sticks when out of nowhere a kid, probably eight or nine, practically climbed into my lap with a broken inner tube.
"Here," he said.
"Umm, that's not mine. Is it yours?"
"Nope."
Cue uncomfortable silence as I sit there with a strange kid in my lap...
"OK, then. I'm going to set this on the side in case someone comes looking for it and you can go back to your friends or mom or whatever."
As he sidled away, I looked over at a friend and she was clearly as puzzled as I was. Why on earth would a kid that age just climb into a strange vampire woman's lap? Beats me... maybe it was a good thing that he didn't have a parent/guardian/adult paying close attention to him, because if I was his mom and had noticed him climbing on another mom, I certainly would have been suspicious. Especially if she was as pale as the undead.
Well, not quite, but I'm a red-head, my kids are blonde, and my hubby hisses at the sun. Collectively, we are half a shade darker than an albino. I should own stock in a sunscreen company. In case you haven't ever seen me in real life, I'm pale. My kids got screwed in the "healthy glow" department.
So when you see us at the pool, you are very likely to find us as the only family who swims in suits comparable to what our great-great-grandparents wore in 1902. My kids wear shortie wetsuits, Scott swims in a rash guard t-shirt, and I wear *gasp* men's trunks with my tankini top. OK, that's mostly because I have shaving issues, but we are easily the most covered up family splashing around.
Maybe that makes me stand out like a sore thumb or maybe that makes me seem crazy exotic, but whatever the case, it attracts lonely kids like moths to a flame. The last three times I have been at the pool, clearly occupied with own little water nymphs, I have been approached (more like mobbed) by needy little boys. Three different boys.
One was very, very interested in my kids' water toys. Since we were three minutes from the pool closing, I let him use a water shooter. Until I caught a woman, who was sitting on a deck chair, glaring at me like I was molesting her kid. Thankfully, the last splash whistle blew and we were done for the evening.
The next was a kid right about Milo's age. So five-ish. He sidled up to me with some inane five-year-old chatter, then proceeded to splash my face with a full-on tidal wave. I was wearing my contact lenses, so I turned my back to him because I didn't want him to wash my lenses right out of my eye. The kid was clearly not a whiz with subtlety because he kept splashing my back. Scott noticed and warned him, "You don't want to splash he, buddy, she'll splash you back."
But he continued to splash me until his mother FINALLY got up off her deck chair and told him, "Splashing is not nice. Please leave her alone so I can get back to my book."
Hmm... interesting pattern of kids not being supervised well by mothers who are working on their tans instead of keeping track of their progeny, huh? Maybe the best pool moms are the palest?
The third kid was easily the most strange. I do not know if he had a parent or guardian at the pool or not, but I was sitting on the edge while Violet was bouncing around me with our dive sticks when out of nowhere a kid, probably eight or nine, practically climbed into my lap with a broken inner tube.
"Here," he said.
"Umm, that's not mine. Is it yours?"
"Nope."
Cue uncomfortable silence as I sit there with a strange kid in my lap...
"OK, then. I'm going to set this on the side in case someone comes looking for it and you can go back to your friends or mom or whatever."
As he sidled away, I looked over at a friend and she was clearly as puzzled as I was. Why on earth would a kid that age just climb into a strange vampire woman's lap? Beats me... maybe it was a good thing that he didn't have a parent/guardian/adult paying close attention to him, because if I was his mom and had noticed him climbing on another mom, I certainly would have been suspicious. Especially if she was as pale as the undead.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Knock, Knock...
Right now my kids are into knock-knock jokes. Here's a couple of examples of their stellar wit:
Me: Knock, knock.
Milo: Who's there?
Me: Ken.
Milo: Ken who?
Me: Ken I come inside, it's raining out here!
And we all laugh. Hee, hee, hee...
Violet: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Violet giggles manically and doesn't finish the joke.
And we all laugh. Hee, hee, hee...
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Repeat 14, 17, 22 times...
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Hey, banana, if you knock on my door one more time I'm calling the police! You're making me nuts! Get to the punchline already, kid...
Pause... pause... pause...
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Knock, knock.
Milo: Who's there?
Me: Ken.
Milo: Ken who?
Me: Ken I come inside, it's raining out here!
And we all laugh. Hee, hee, hee...
Violet: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Violet giggles manically and doesn't finish the joke.
And we all laugh. Hee, hee, hee...
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Repeat 14, 17, 22 times...
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Me: Hey, banana, if you knock on my door one more time I'm calling the police! You're making me nuts! Get to the punchline already, kid...
Pause... pause... pause...
Milo: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Milo: Banana.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Spreadin' the Love!
I was recently honored to receive a Versatile Blogger Award from the first person to list me on her blogroll as a "must read." Well, other than people to whom I am related or have known for the last five years... I am talking about the lovely Vanita at The After Bedtime Blog. I want to sincerely thank her and send her lots of working mommy encouragement vibes -- she's a full-time working mom of four who has just started blogging and I bow to her superior time management skills.
The rules for accepting the award include graciously thanking the award giver, sharing 7 things you may or may not know about me, and passing it along. Since Vanita is a new blogger, I decided to pass this along to several friends who are also writing brand spanking new (or pretty darn close to new) blogs:
chgomomx3 at Funny on the Internet -- She and I actually share a brain. Sometimes we even use it at the same time, ooh!
KellyLane at Kelly Rambles On -- A funny lady with the biggest heart known to man. *muah*
The Laughing Librarian at The Other Side of the Stacks -- You don't want to be drinking anything when you read this one, lest you spit it on your screen...
Becky at WAITING FOR OUR GIRL OK, Becky has been blogging for longer than I have, but she totally rocks! And she's sharing her family's adoption journey with the world.
Anna at Earn Money From Home (For Real) Anna is a stay-at-home mom who knows how to work the internet, baby. She's checked out and participated in nearly every link she furnishes.
Why did I pick these lovely women?
Five years ago we all met in an online parenting forum -- we all have children between the ages of 4 and 5 and have been with each other through thick and thin, the good, the bad, the ugly and the sublime. These lovelies are my online sisters, so don't say nuttin' bad about 'em or you'll have the full force of my wit with which to recon.
Seven other things you may or may not know about me:
1. It pains me to end a sentence with a preposition. Hence the awkward threat above.
2. I don't like beer.
3. I really want to cut my hair into a fauxhawk and dye it bright pink, but it's not likely to happen.
4. My vocal range goes almost as low ans Scott's.
5. I don't care for scrambled eggs. For some reason, that texture makes me gag.
6. Lilacs are my favorite flower.
7. I could spend all day kissing Violet's plump little cheeks. Sigh...
The rules for accepting the award include graciously thanking the award giver, sharing 7 things you may or may not know about me, and passing it along. Since Vanita is a new blogger, I decided to pass this along to several friends who are also writing brand spanking new (or pretty darn close to new) blogs:
chgomomx3 at Funny on the Internet -- She and I actually share a brain. Sometimes we even use it at the same time, ooh!
KellyLane at Kelly Rambles On -- A funny lady with the biggest heart known to man. *muah*
The Laughing Librarian at The Other Side of the Stacks -- You don't want to be drinking anything when you read this one, lest you spit it on your screen...
Becky at WAITING FOR OUR GIRL OK, Becky has been blogging for longer than I have, but she totally rocks! And she's sharing her family's adoption journey with the world.
Anna at Earn Money From Home (For Real) Anna is a stay-at-home mom who knows how to work the internet, baby. She's checked out and participated in nearly every link she furnishes.
Why did I pick these lovely women?
Five years ago we all met in an online parenting forum -- we all have children between the ages of 4 and 5 and have been with each other through thick and thin, the good, the bad, the ugly and the sublime. These lovelies are my online sisters, so don't say nuttin' bad about 'em or you'll have the full force of my wit with which to recon.
Seven other things you may or may not know about me:
1. It pains me to end a sentence with a preposition. Hence the awkward threat above.
2. I don't like beer.
3. I really want to cut my hair into a fauxhawk and dye it bright pink, but it's not likely to happen.
4. My vocal range goes almost as low ans Scott's.
5. I don't care for scrambled eggs. For some reason, that texture makes me gag.
6. Lilacs are my favorite flower.
7. I could spend all day kissing Violet's plump little cheeks. Sigh...
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Wearing the Pointy Hat of Shame
It is a common ritual in Scott's family that if you make a bone-headed mistake, you will be teased about it mercilessly until someone else comes along and makes a bigger bone-headed mistake. Yes, they feed off the weak, though in a good-natured way.
I guess it's my turn for the teasing.
Recently the wife of one of Scott's many cousins passed away. As in this past Friday. Since this particular cousin is a local cousin, Scott's older brother (the funeral director) took care of the arrangements.
Sensitivity Disclaimer: Please let me say here that I do not think that dying, nor dying from cancer, is funny. It isn't.
Anyway, his brother relayed information to us about said arrangements via an email containing the copy for the obituary and the dates and times of the visitation and funeral. I read the dates and times aloud to Scott, taking care to note that we should likely go to the visitation, scheduled for 5-8 on Sunday night because I needed to work during the funeral and we didn't think he should drag the kids to this funeral. Sunday, 5-8, got it?
So Sunday afternoon comes along and we bathe and dress the children, cajoling them into nice clothes, begging them to avoid puddles in the driveway, and cranking the music so that they didn't nod off on the drive to the funeral home. If you happened to pass us on the highway, yes that was an entire family of four singing Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" as recorded by the cast of Glee. And if you thought we happened to be dancing rather vigorously for riding in a car, then you clearly haven't lived dangerously, nor done the whole "Let's try to keep a drowsy five-year-old from nodding off at 5:30 p.m. so he'll still go to bed when he's supposed to in a few hours" sacrificial dance to the sleep gods.
Now, this particular cousin and his wife did not have a bevy of friends, so we fully expected the visitation to be on the less crowded side. But we were wholly unprepared to pull up to the funeral home and find not another soul. As in a completely empty parking lot, with a tumble weed of sweet corn husks rolling through on the lonely wind.
Confused, Scott calls his mom. Who tells us that the visitation was from 1-4 p.m. and not 5-8 p.m. as I had thought.
Wha??? How had I messed this one up? I swear I read the times right from the obituary...
Except that after Scott's brother had forwarded on the obit, he apparently sent a revised one with the changed visitation time. It had originally been scheduled from 5-8, but was moved to 1-4. Not only that, but his brother also sent Scott a text containing the time for the funeral and the updated time for the visitation. Scott hadn't noticed, and, therefore I believe that he should be equally as responsible for this snafu.
But, nope, that's not going to happen. So, for at least a little while, I get to wear the family dunce cap...
I guess it's my turn for the teasing.
Recently the wife of one of Scott's many cousins passed away. As in this past Friday. Since this particular cousin is a local cousin, Scott's older brother (the funeral director) took care of the arrangements.
Sensitivity Disclaimer: Please let me say here that I do not think that dying, nor dying from cancer, is funny. It isn't.
Anyway, his brother relayed information to us about said arrangements via an email containing the copy for the obituary and the dates and times of the visitation and funeral. I read the dates and times aloud to Scott, taking care to note that we should likely go to the visitation, scheduled for 5-8 on Sunday night because I needed to work during the funeral and we didn't think he should drag the kids to this funeral. Sunday, 5-8, got it?
So Sunday afternoon comes along and we bathe and dress the children, cajoling them into nice clothes, begging them to avoid puddles in the driveway, and cranking the music so that they didn't nod off on the drive to the funeral home. If you happened to pass us on the highway, yes that was an entire family of four singing Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" as recorded by the cast of Glee. And if you thought we happened to be dancing rather vigorously for riding in a car, then you clearly haven't lived dangerously, nor done the whole "Let's try to keep a drowsy five-year-old from nodding off at 5:30 p.m. so he'll still go to bed when he's supposed to in a few hours" sacrificial dance to the sleep gods.
Now, this particular cousin and his wife did not have a bevy of friends, so we fully expected the visitation to be on the less crowded side. But we were wholly unprepared to pull up to the funeral home and find not another soul. As in a completely empty parking lot, with a tumble weed of sweet corn husks rolling through on the lonely wind.
Confused, Scott calls his mom. Who tells us that the visitation was from 1-4 p.m. and not 5-8 p.m. as I had thought.
Wha??? How had I messed this one up? I swear I read the times right from the obituary...
Except that after Scott's brother had forwarded on the obit, he apparently sent a revised one with the changed visitation time. It had originally been scheduled from 5-8, but was moved to 1-4. Not only that, but his brother also sent Scott a text containing the time for the funeral and the updated time for the visitation. Scott hadn't noticed, and, therefore I believe that he should be equally as responsible for this snafu.
But, nope, that's not going to happen. So, for at least a little while, I get to wear the family dunce cap...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Life Between Two Pink Lines
My house is so quiet right now. Scott and the kids are outside cleaning the garage, the dogs are lying on the back porch and I'm in here enjoying the silence, letting it sit on my shoulders like a cape.
Unfortunately, in the silence I start thinking, start dreaming, start wondering. And, though I have not mentioned it here or really anywhere lately, all I think about in the silence is out current status of fertility, or, more correctly, infertility. I try not to dwell on it and readily acknowledge that this miscarriage was far less emotionally devastating than my first one was -- back when we weren't sure that we'd ever have another child.
But in the quiet moments my mind wanders and I think, "Wow! I'd be out of the first trimester by now!" and " might have started feeling movement soon!" The thought is relentless sometimes, "I want a baby. I want a baby. I want a baby." It rides on every heartbeat, following my blood as it reaches my fingertips and flows back to my heart. It is so illogical -- my family is perfect as it is, really it is. But I want a baby. I want a baby. I want a baby.
I have been feeling this way for so long, long enough to have lived through the excited planning phase (trying to conceive months 1-5), the jealous phase ( months 6-10), and the heartbroken phase (months 10-15). I am now in month 17 and in the "I'm just so tired of trying, of monitoring, medicating, timing, stressing, worrying and waiting" phase. Which means that every time someone announces a new pregnancy, I am just numb. An online friend announced (on my birthday, no less) that she is expecting her third. I was more annoyed that she announced it on my birthday, especially since she knows my history, than I was jealous or even happy for her. Of course, I didn't tell anyone -- why would I?
When you are struggling with infertility there is no obvious sign, no one makes a t-shirt that says, "Hey, I can't get pregnant and stay pregnant, so please stop asking me when we're going to have another kid!" You don't have a black cloud following you around, raining on people for saying something insensitive because my infertility consumes only my waking thoughts, not theirs. It shouldn't, either. It is such a silent suffering, my battle scars are all in places that no one can see.
I had to force myself to use my ovulation predictor kit the last few mornings -- I had fallen out of the habit since the miscarriage and getting back into it just made me mad. I hate that my life is currently ruled by two little pink lines, that so many decisions rest in the space between them -- should we start planning next summer's vacation yet? What size bridesmaid's dress will I need to order for my brother's wedding? We need a new vehicle -- mini-van to hold three carseats or sedan than needs to hold only two?
I have already had to release the daycare slot our sitter was holding for us. If we were successful right now, this cycle, we would be having a baby close enough to summer that we wouldn't need daycare until the fall when Scott goes back to work full-time. For some reason, speaking that logic aloud, relaying that choice to the sitter was so very difficult because we were admitting failure on an epic level. There is such finality when you tell someone "We don't have a child for you yet, nor will we during this upcoming year."
Part of me wants to give up, so tired of the infinite waiting, the life held suspended in "What if?" But I don't want to give up on a child, don't want a baby to feel like an after-thought, so I'll live life between those two pink lines for a little while longer.
Unfortunately, in the silence I start thinking, start dreaming, start wondering. And, though I have not mentioned it here or really anywhere lately, all I think about in the silence is out current status of fertility, or, more correctly, infertility. I try not to dwell on it and readily acknowledge that this miscarriage was far less emotionally devastating than my first one was -- back when we weren't sure that we'd ever have another child.
But in the quiet moments my mind wanders and I think, "Wow! I'd be out of the first trimester by now!" and " might have started feeling movement soon!" The thought is relentless sometimes, "I want a baby. I want a baby. I want a baby." It rides on every heartbeat, following my blood as it reaches my fingertips and flows back to my heart. It is so illogical -- my family is perfect as it is, really it is. But I want a baby. I want a baby. I want a baby.
I have been feeling this way for so long, long enough to have lived through the excited planning phase (trying to conceive months 1-5), the jealous phase ( months 6-10), and the heartbroken phase (months 10-15). I am now in month 17 and in the "I'm just so tired of trying, of monitoring, medicating, timing, stressing, worrying and waiting" phase. Which means that every time someone announces a new pregnancy, I am just numb. An online friend announced (on my birthday, no less) that she is expecting her third. I was more annoyed that she announced it on my birthday, especially since she knows my history, than I was jealous or even happy for her. Of course, I didn't tell anyone -- why would I?
When you are struggling with infertility there is no obvious sign, no one makes a t-shirt that says, "Hey, I can't get pregnant and stay pregnant, so please stop asking me when we're going to have another kid!" You don't have a black cloud following you around, raining on people for saying something insensitive because my infertility consumes only my waking thoughts, not theirs. It shouldn't, either. It is such a silent suffering, my battle scars are all in places that no one can see.
I had to force myself to use my ovulation predictor kit the last few mornings -- I had fallen out of the habit since the miscarriage and getting back into it just made me mad. I hate that my life is currently ruled by two little pink lines, that so many decisions rest in the space between them -- should we start planning next summer's vacation yet? What size bridesmaid's dress will I need to order for my brother's wedding? We need a new vehicle -- mini-van to hold three carseats or sedan than needs to hold only two?
I have already had to release the daycare slot our sitter was holding for us. If we were successful right now, this cycle, we would be having a baby close enough to summer that we wouldn't need daycare until the fall when Scott goes back to work full-time. For some reason, speaking that logic aloud, relaying that choice to the sitter was so very difficult because we were admitting failure on an epic level. There is such finality when you tell someone "We don't have a child for you yet, nor will we during this upcoming year."
Part of me wants to give up, so tired of the infinite waiting, the life held suspended in "What if?" But I don't want to give up on a child, don't want a baby to feel like an after-thought, so I'll live life between those two pink lines for a little while longer.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Star Wars: In Concert -- A Magical Memory in the Making
Wanna know what can make a newly-minted five-year-old boy and his daddy almost-pee-your-pants excited?
Star Wars: In Concert
We gave Milo (and us) tickets to see this for his birthday. Of course, handing a five-year-old tickets is not a treat, so we showed him the webpage, too. That made more of an impact. We'd been holding the tickets for months, but only revealed the gift on his birthday. Then, after several celebrations, he had mostly forgotten about the event.
So last night we left Violet with a sitter and set off for the show. My Eagle Scout and former West Point Cadet hubby did manage to get us lost on the way -- so not surprising to anyone who knows him. Our unexpected detour made us a wee bit late, so he dropped us off in front of the arena and set out to park the car while we went in to get seats.
My little Jedi and I made a pit stop in the restroom just outside the arena entrance. It was while we were in a stall that we heard the opening strains of the Star Wars theme -- Milo started bouncing, his face glowing with excitement, "I hear it, mom! I hear it! Flush and wash so we can go in!" And I did, scurrying out the door in pursuit of my Darth Vader shirted babe. We were ushered to our seats before the opening number finished and only had to climb over three people to get to them. We listened to the last half of the piece, Milo glued to my side and gripping my arm because that was the only way he wasn't floating up to the ceiling.
As the applause crested, Milo clapped furiously. The crowd cheered loudly as the conductor paused before starting the next number. Then a spotlight picked up an impeccably costumed narrator as he took center stage. I whispered in Milo's ear, "Look! Who do you think that is?"
"I dunno... who is he?"
"That's Anthony Daniels, the man who played C-3PO!"
"Wow! He doesn't look like a droid..."
Just then, the second number started. We listened intently until Scott finally joined us, arriving with popcorn and lemonade. I told Milo, "Tell daddy who was on stage!"
Milo looked confused, then leaned over and said...
Are you ready for it?
What did he say?
Did he say "C-3PO?"
Nope.
He said, "Harry Potter!"
I started laughing and Scott looked utterly confused. And it was in this moment that Anthony Daniels again took the stage. And I watched my husband go from an utterly confused adult to a thrilled and disbelieving five-year-old boy himself. He sat up straight as an arrow, his slack-jawed awe apparent as he stammered, "Anth...Anthony Daniels! It's Anthony Daniels! C-3PO!" and a bit of additional gibberish.
You see, though he was the one who had researched the performance, the one who had suggested the tickets, the one who had ordered the tickets and had driven us in a round-about way to the show -- he didn't realize that Anthony Daniels was traveling along with the 100 piece orchestra to each performance. He thought the narration was to be canned. But it wasn't.
And that is how I will now have the most wonderful memory of the boys I love the most in this whole world as they both sat there, staring apoplectic-ally at the stage, both thrilled beyond belief, both magically transported, both basking in the glow of their favorite music as it was conducted by a man who vaguely resembled Harry Potter (as in he had dark wavy hair and round glasses).
Star Wars: In Concert
We gave Milo (and us) tickets to see this for his birthday. Of course, handing a five-year-old tickets is not a treat, so we showed him the webpage, too. That made more of an impact. We'd been holding the tickets for months, but only revealed the gift on his birthday. Then, after several celebrations, he had mostly forgotten about the event.
So last night we left Violet with a sitter and set off for the show. My Eagle Scout and former West Point Cadet hubby did manage to get us lost on the way -- so not surprising to anyone who knows him. Our unexpected detour made us a wee bit late, so he dropped us off in front of the arena and set out to park the car while we went in to get seats.
My little Jedi and I made a pit stop in the restroom just outside the arena entrance. It was while we were in a stall that we heard the opening strains of the Star Wars theme -- Milo started bouncing, his face glowing with excitement, "I hear it, mom! I hear it! Flush and wash so we can go in!" And I did, scurrying out the door in pursuit of my Darth Vader shirted babe. We were ushered to our seats before the opening number finished and only had to climb over three people to get to them. We listened to the last half of the piece, Milo glued to my side and gripping my arm because that was the only way he wasn't floating up to the ceiling.
As the applause crested, Milo clapped furiously. The crowd cheered loudly as the conductor paused before starting the next number. Then a spotlight picked up an impeccably costumed narrator as he took center stage. I whispered in Milo's ear, "Look! Who do you think that is?"
"I dunno... who is he?"
"That's Anthony Daniels, the man who played C-3PO!"
"Wow! He doesn't look like a droid..."
Just then, the second number started. We listened intently until Scott finally joined us, arriving with popcorn and lemonade. I told Milo, "Tell daddy who was on stage!"
Milo looked confused, then leaned over and said...
Are you ready for it?
What did he say?
Did he say "C-3PO?"
Nope.
He said, "Harry Potter!"
I started laughing and Scott looked utterly confused. And it was in this moment that Anthony Daniels again took the stage. And I watched my husband go from an utterly confused adult to a thrilled and disbelieving five-year-old boy himself. He sat up straight as an arrow, his slack-jawed awe apparent as he stammered, "Anth...Anthony Daniels! It's Anthony Daniels! C-3PO!" and a bit of additional gibberish.
You see, though he was the one who had researched the performance, the one who had suggested the tickets, the one who had ordered the tickets and had driven us in a round-about way to the show -- he didn't realize that Anthony Daniels was traveling along with the 100 piece orchestra to each performance. He thought the narration was to be canned. But it wasn't.
And that is how I will now have the most wonderful memory of the boys I love the most in this whole world as they both sat there, staring apoplectic-ally at the stage, both thrilled beyond belief, both magically transported, both basking in the glow of their favorite music as it was conducted by a man who vaguely resembled Harry Potter (as in he had dark wavy hair and round glasses).
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
It's a Doggone Furry World
My dogs are shedding right now. Oh, who am I kidding, they're almost always shedding. But it is worse in the summer when they drop their fluffy warm undercoats. Because neither man nor beast should have to swelter under a double coat of fur in the heat and humidity of Iowa July. Yes, that is a suggestion to the hubster than he might want to shave one of these days.
Their shedding has left piles and clumps of fur all over my hardwood floors. When I turn the ceiling fan on, the fur scurries away like living creatures, crowding into the corners of the room in search of escape. Because of this, my trusty Dyson stands at the ready for anyone to suck up the fur, lickety-split. And I've been using it daily and sometimes twice a day to manage the cartwheeling tumbleweeds of dog fur.
Apparently, however, I am the only being in the house that notices the fur. I already know that I am the only one who obsesses over it, vowing to hunt it down and suck it into submission. I say that it bothers no one else because I did not have a chance to perform a pre-work sweep this morning and now I am home at the end of my part-time day and the fur has not only not budged, but it has multiplied.
As a result, I am spending 10 minutes on this blog entry, then I'm teaming up with my Dyson to suck up the dog fur. Again. And again. And again. I think that the fur actually breeds faster than laundry, and we all know how quickly that gets out of control...
Their shedding has left piles and clumps of fur all over my hardwood floors. When I turn the ceiling fan on, the fur scurries away like living creatures, crowding into the corners of the room in search of escape. Because of this, my trusty Dyson stands at the ready for anyone to suck up the fur, lickety-split. And I've been using it daily and sometimes twice a day to manage the cartwheeling tumbleweeds of dog fur.
Apparently, however, I am the only being in the house that notices the fur. I already know that I am the only one who obsesses over it, vowing to hunt it down and suck it into submission. I say that it bothers no one else because I did not have a chance to perform a pre-work sweep this morning and now I am home at the end of my part-time day and the fur has not only not budged, but it has multiplied.
As a result, I am spending 10 minutes on this blog entry, then I'm teaming up with my Dyson to suck up the dog fur. Again. And again. And again. I think that the fur actually breeds faster than laundry, and we all know how quickly that gets out of control...
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
My Little Moonbeam
Ahh, long weekend... How I needed you!
Since I am now a part-time employee, I have my afternoons work-free. That's not to say that I'm not working, because we all know that chasing hooligans and taking care of a house is work, but I'm not at my office working int he afternoons any more.
My new schedule kicked in last Thursday, but due to medical obligations (Milo's 5-year well-child check), I worked a whopping two hours that day. And Friday morning FLEW by. Friday afternoon brought many relatives and a bonfire. Saturday was a trip back to my hometown to spend the day with my mom and the night and Sunday with my dad. Yesterday was a lunch out with a friend who is moving to the Pacific Northwest, grocery shopping, and rain avoidance.
Which brings me to today! I left the house shortly after my lil man woke up, but not before he started asking about playing the Nintendo. And completely before my lil miss woke up -- all I saw of her this morning was a mop of bed-head and he little pink-jammied bum sticking up in the air as she slept. Which is the cutest thing ever, by the way.
Violet has been showing off her sense of humor lately. She's got a silly streak eight-miles wide running through her. She often speaks in silly voices, uses goofy facial expressions, and sings random phrases. Including a song she made up the other night, "I'm aliiiiiiiiiiiiive! I'm aliiiiiiiiiiive! Alive! Alive! Alive! Aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!" There are no other words to this song. I think she thinks she's alive, huh?
Miss V has the uncanny ability to laugh at herself. As a toddler. To recognize that she does silly things or makes clumsy mistakes and chuckle. Don't most kids get all grumpy and embarrassed over stuff like that? Not my baby girl. She thinks the strangest things are funny -- for example, last night she was eating dinner and suddenly broke out in a full-on guffaw because she had not one but TWO tortellini on her spoon. Comedy genius? I dunno, but certainly funny enough to make her laugh at herself. Loudly. And while I was on the phone with my mother. A strange one she is...
I actually love this about her. I love that she doesn't need an adult to cue her to laugh at things she finds funny. I love that her general countenance is smiling, that her sweet indescribable eyes always twinkle with delight. That her first reaction to most new situations is positive. That she is completely capable of entertaining herself fully all by herself, though we do play with her and read to her and enjoy her nearly every moment of every day.
I am so darn glad for my little moonbeam every day...
You are my moonbeam, my little moonbeam.
You make me happy when skies are dark.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take my moonbeam away...
Since I am now a part-time employee, I have my afternoons work-free. That's not to say that I'm not working, because we all know that chasing hooligans and taking care of a house is work, but I'm not at my office working int he afternoons any more.
My new schedule kicked in last Thursday, but due to medical obligations (Milo's 5-year well-child check), I worked a whopping two hours that day. And Friday morning FLEW by. Friday afternoon brought many relatives and a bonfire. Saturday was a trip back to my hometown to spend the day with my mom and the night and Sunday with my dad. Yesterday was a lunch out with a friend who is moving to the Pacific Northwest, grocery shopping, and rain avoidance.
Which brings me to today! I left the house shortly after my lil man woke up, but not before he started asking about playing the Nintendo. And completely before my lil miss woke up -- all I saw of her this morning was a mop of bed-head and he little pink-jammied bum sticking up in the air as she slept. Which is the cutest thing ever, by the way.
Violet has been showing off her sense of humor lately. She's got a silly streak eight-miles wide running through her. She often speaks in silly voices, uses goofy facial expressions, and sings random phrases. Including a song she made up the other night, "I'm aliiiiiiiiiiiiive! I'm aliiiiiiiiiiive! Alive! Alive! Alive! Aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!" There are no other words to this song. I think she thinks she's alive, huh?
Miss V has the uncanny ability to laugh at herself. As a toddler. To recognize that she does silly things or makes clumsy mistakes and chuckle. Don't most kids get all grumpy and embarrassed over stuff like that? Not my baby girl. She thinks the strangest things are funny -- for example, last night she was eating dinner and suddenly broke out in a full-on guffaw because she had not one but TWO tortellini on her spoon. Comedy genius? I dunno, but certainly funny enough to make her laugh at herself. Loudly. And while I was on the phone with my mother. A strange one she is...
I actually love this about her. I love that she doesn't need an adult to cue her to laugh at things she finds funny. I love that her general countenance is smiling, that her sweet indescribable eyes always twinkle with delight. That her first reaction to most new situations is positive. That she is completely capable of entertaining herself fully all by herself, though we do play with her and read to her and enjoy her nearly every moment of every day.
I am so darn glad for my little moonbeam every day...
You are my moonbeam, my little moonbeam.
You make me happy when skies are dark.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take my moonbeam away...
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